John Winters is a Massachusetts native who has spent more than a decade as a journalist and still contributes to select publications. His work has appeared in Salon, the Providence Phoenix, Runner's World, Playboy, The Patriot Ledger, Rhode Island
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John Winters is a Massachusetts native who has spent more than a decade as a journalist and still contributes to select publications. His work has appeared in Salon, the Providence Phoenix, Runner's World, Playboy, The Patriot Ledger, Rhode Island Monthly, Art New England, as well as daily papers across southeastern Massachusetts and various websites. His short stories have appeared in literary journals. He is the author of the novel, Murderhouse Blues, and the short story collection, Coulda Been Somebody. John is an adjunct faculty member at Bridgewater State University, where he teaches English.

Just now, the image of an old paperback appeared in my Facebook feed. I easily recognized the name above the title: Vladimir Nabokov hovering boldly on the cover of one of his lesser-known novels. When I looked to see who sent me this intriguing post, I found to the left of the jacket photo in blue letters the name of the famous author-lepidopterist himself. It was accompanied by a thumbnail image of the writer looking out at me from behind the wheel of a European auto.

Man, I think, I have the coolest friends.

In fact, I can claim many of the greatest authors in history as buddies thanks to social media. Beckett, Kafka, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Chekhov, Orwell, Nietzsche, Sartre, Wilde and Proust are all members of my virtual clique, with Dorothy Parker and Sylvia Plath on hand to try and keep this rowdy bunch in line. I have loads more, too. Whenever I select a famous literary icon as a friend, Facebook sends me five more to choose from. This could go on forever. Or, at least until I get to James Patterson and quickly hit the back button.

Youíd think the rewards of literary greatness would add up to more than being befriended by the likes of me. No wonder so many of my BFFs drank themselves into an early grave.

Having such luminous friends has its upside. For instance, Little, Brown just rejected my novel and I have half a mind to ask my friend David Sedaris (one of my still-living pals in this virtual world) to give this Refusenik of an editor a jingle. After all, Iím sure DS, as I call him, would love to be my friend and my publishing-house mate.

If there is a downside to having all these famous friends itís that one day I fear Iíll log onto Facebook and find them all behaving badly. The debauched Ernie and F. Scott fighting it out in the corner over stylistic nuances; Sartre heckling Nietzsche over how God could have died if there was no God; and a tipsy Dorothy Parker trying to lure an unsuspecting Proust over to an XXX website for a little fun. If that happens, I plan to simply log off and leave it to Orwell to straighten things out.

Not much of an afterlife these great authors are enjoying, eh? But at least they are not forgotten; here on my laptop screen and on my iPhone they live forever. Maybe all these religions have it wrong. Perhaps the Afterlife is nothing more than landing a spot in the scrolling chaos of my Facebook page.

Then again, that actually sounds more like hell.

In this digital age, we are what we click. Actually, that would make me an incorrigible bibliophile with a hunger for images labelled ďbarely legal,Ē and a serious gambling problem. Well, like I said, we are what we click. Am I really such a highbrow that my Facebook page should be peopled with famous philosophers and some of literatureís brightest lights? Probably not. Yet that is how I present myself to the online world; these friends of mine are my signifiers and the foundation of the self I project into the virtual world. My real fear is that Facebook will discover a fact-checking algorithm that will reveal the true me: a wannabe whose fifth and most recent application request to Mensa wasnít even answered, who should only be allowed to befriend the likes of Nicholas Sparks. That would surely break up my special little gang.